Where the Water is Deep and the Currents are Cold
by cosmoscorpse
Summary: AU - In which terrible mistakes are made, often costing others their lives, there are politics, and the espionage that comes with them, a curse or two, and far too much involvement of the old gods in modern affairs. (Or: Dave Strider pays for something he didn't do, Rose Lalonde grieves, and Jade Harley sets out to correct her wrongdoings. Eventually.) Previously on AO3
1. DAVE

_PREVIOUS POSTED ON AO3. this story is not complete, but i have approximately 14 chapters (43,000 words) finished. i'll be posting every monday. if you're super thirsty for the story and cannot wait, good for you, you can find it on ao3 under the same title and same penname. _

_alternative tags: hurt no comfort_

.

You're terrified.

The waves move and you can hear them slapping against the side of the boat, but you can't see them. You're blindfolded and your breath stinks with fear. You're sixteen, and you're terrified. You lick your lips, try to get some moisture back into your parched mouth, try to keep from throwing up. You speak.

"I didn't kill him," you say, your voice cracking, and the boat shifts. The chains around your ankles clank against each other. The rope around your wrists burn. You swallow, your Adam's apple bobs up and down. The thing is, with your sight removed, your other senses seem enhanced. You can hear every shifting of people around you, every rush of waves, and every creak of boat. You can identify each of the five people here to witness this by the way they smell. "I swear to God, I didn't kill him, _please_, listen to me."

Your mouth is stale and tastes like vomit. The boat lurches, sickeningly, and creaks to a stop. A large hand grabs your arm, hauls you to your feet. You catch the scent of the forge, and you want to cry. So. Your brother will be the one to throw you over. You suppose that's his way of letting you know he cares. He supports you, leads you limping to the side of the boat. You can smell the salt, and your breath hitches in your throat.

You can feel the king's stare. He's piercing you through from the other side of the ship. Jade, though, Jade is closer, all summer and green apples and you lean toward her. You can hear Terezi flipping her coin not far off. She says nothing.

"Jade," you plead. "Jade, please, you know me, you know I'd never kill him, you know I never _could_-"

Her breath ghosts across the distance between the two of you. Her hand brushes your cheek, and you know her fingers come away damp. "I don't know much of anything anymore, Dave."

Her words hit you like a stab to the side. You can't breathe. Your brother hauls the iron weight at your feet up, tosses it over the side. It hits the water with a splash and _pulls_, you yelp, but he has your arm and it isn't time yet.

"I just…" she trails off. "I want to know _why_."

You sob. "I didn't. Jade, I swear I didn't."

She sniffles, and you feel her move closer. You can feel the heat radiating off her and you are ice cold. She reaches behind you, unties the blindfold around your eyes. You blink in the moonlight. Terezi and her mother stand to your brother's side. The king sits solemnly a few feet away. He looks at the floorboards.

At one point, you were like a second son to him. You suppose that time is long past.

Jade's eyes are wet. Her lips tremble and it tears at you. You want to hold her and promise it will be all right but your hands are tied (hah, literally) and you both know it won't be all right. You duck your head. "Tell me that to my face," she says, softly.

You raise your head, tighten your jaw. You only shake minimally. Redglare's boot taps impatiently at the floorboards. "Jade, I promise you that I didn't kill John."

She stares at you and for a moment, a brief shining moment, you think that she might believe you. But then her face crumples and she snarls, so quietly, "I don't believe you."

It destroys you. You jerk back as if you've been struck, and then the king rises, tall and broad and imposing. His pipe glows cherry red in the gloom. Your throat tightens.

Oh, God, you don't want this. You don't want to die, _please_.

"Enough. It's time," he says, and your brother's grip tightens on your arm. He leads you to the side of the ship, your irons clanking, the weight scraping against the side of the boat. There's a gap in the railing, where a plank would be set, so that one could easily get to and from a dock. There's nothing there now but empty air and water below.

"David Strider," Redglare begins, her voice like razors and freezing cold like the waves below. You can't look away from them, your bare, dirty toes sticking out over the side. In your mind, you're already in the water, and it's already in your lungs. You're already dead, and you hardly hear what she says. "You have been tried and found guilty for the murder of Johnathan Egbert, heir apparent to the kingdom of Skaia. The court has sentenced you to death by drowning. Do you have any final statements?"

"I didn't kill him," you say, and your voice cracks. Your mouth twists into a harsh, bitter line and your vision is obscured by tears. "God, I. _Please_, I didn't kill him."

The boat is silent, save for the waves and the wind. "Dave…" Redglare sighs. You think she might sound regretful. "May God have mercy on your soul."

She must motion to your brother because there's a sharp jab to your back and you jerk forward and you're falling through the air and the water stings like a sharp, cold slap when you hit it and there is water in your eyes and ears and nose and mouth and there is no air and you are being pulled down, down, down.

.

_"John! Wait up," you shout, feet pounding against the floor, bright, natural sunlight filtering through the windows high up, highlighting the dust motes suspended in midair. John stops and sits on his ledge, at least twenty feet above the ground. He grins down at you._

_"Hi Dave!" he says, waving delightedly and swinging his legs above the void. _

_The distance between him and the ground makes you nervous but it's never seemed to bother him. John belongs to the high places and they belong to him. Once he brought you up to the roof. He'd wanted to show you a hiding place he'd made out of an eave and a spare slab of wood. The little alcove had been filled with things glorious to the mind of a six-year-old: feathers from a crow, a broken music box, a pocket watch, a diamond necklace and an old book of piano music. It was a great place but the height and wind had made you sick to your stomach and so you'd descended quickly. John still hides up there sometimes. You call to him from the window, or have Rose or Jade collect him._

_You stop below him, and catch your breath. You hold up a canvas wrapped object to him. "I have something for you," you say, and John gasps, rises to his feet, and sprints along the ledge to a tapestry. He slides down it, hitting the ground running. He stops abruptly a foot or so away from you. His brilliantly blue eyes, the king's eyes, shine with happiness. He glows and it warms your heart. "Happy birthday dude," you hand over the canvas, and John cautiously hefts the weight before sliding to the ground cross-legged. He starts working at the twine holding it closed, and goes nowhere fast, his little brow bunched in concentration and lower lip caught between his teeth._

_You laugh, and kneel in front of him, shooing away his hands. You take out the knife your brother gave you for your own seventh birthday. "Let me," you say, and cut through the twine like butter. John unfolds the canvas reverently, and gasps when the gift comes into full view._

_It's a hammer, iron and beautifully cast. Your bro helped you make it yourself. It's a fitting weapon for a future king. John lifts it and it fits perfectly in his hand. It looks natural, like it's an extension of him, and you know that he can only grow into it more as he gets older._

_You smile, small and private, and John launches himself at you. _

_"Thank you so much Dave! I love it!"_

_You giggle. "Come on, dork. Jade and Rose are waiting for us outside."_

.

You heard once that if a well was deep enough, a man could stand at the bottom and not see the sun, even if it was the middle of the day. You aren't at the bottom of a well and it isn't day, but the moon had been bright on the boat, and you can't see it any more.

The water is deep but it took no time at all for you to sink to the bottom. Your ears had popped and you had screamed with the pain and now there is water in your lungs and you are fading fast. The water in your lungs had hurt going in but you can't feel much of anything now. You're numb, blissfully numb, and you drift. There is no air and you drift. Distantly, you think you should be panicking, struggling, not going down without a fight because, goddammit, you're a Strider and Striders don't just go belly up for death.

It's the rumbling that stirs you out of your stupor. It's a keening sound, both too high, piercing what remains of your eardrums and driving straight to your brain like a nail, and too low, shaking deep in your water filled chest. Something shifts at your feet, something large and cold and stone smooth and it moves, running up your body.

Your eyes snap open as wide as they can and adrenaline spikes through your system. The shadows around you are moving, amassing into great, hulking things and you're screaming, you're screaming out the water in your lungs and sucking in new lungfuls, those are_tentacles_-

You'd heard stories about the beast that lurked off the coast. Ghost stories, mostly, brought to you by Rose to freak you out. You hadn't given them much credit but now it's staring you in the face and touching you and your chest aches, it's collapsing, your heart hurts your head hurts you're _dying_ and you're going to be _eaten_.

Just like in Rose's stories. Just another ghost.

Your heart stutters, stops, and stumbles forward. The beast rumble-keens again, and you glimpse ivory-white teeth looming out of the darkness. Your vision swims, swirling black, and your scream chokes in your throat. You slump forward. A new, smaller sound is made, something sharp and angry, reverberating through the water.

The tentacles retreat. A smaller, slimmer figure darts in and out of your vision. There are hands on your ankles, your wrists, and you're floating free of the weight and the ropes, nothing but water keeping you down now.

Your heart thuds once, twice, resonating in the tips of your fingers and throughout your entire being. You turn your head up, looking for a glimpse of light, and then

you're


	2. ROSE

_a new chapter, from the pov of the lovely rose~ _

_find me on tumblr, my url is seaborgois and sometimes (not always but sometimes) i post things about my writing._

_alternative tags: au up the wazoo (in case you hadnt noticed yet)_

.

ROSE

.

The cathedral is silent. You kneel in front of a flickering candle, prayer beads clutched tightly in your hands. They're making small, circular dents in your hands.

You're alone.

There is a story, that siblings can always feel when their counterparts are in great peril, or dying. This connection is more intense for closer siblings, say, for example, twins. You had originally considered it to be an old wive's tale, but you know it has roots in truth now.

Out of the window you could see the lantern, bobbing out on the water, and the many lanterns, gathered on the docks, watching like it was a play, a public spectacle. You had not been able to say goodbye to your brother. This morning when he was dragged from the dungeons the most you got was a passing glance, and a fleeting grip of hands. Later, you felt the exact moment your brother died. It left you aching, bereft, and simmering with rage dressed in grief. You were here then and you lit a candle. You prayed, and you were left alone.

One of the grand double doors swings open. The steps of the intruder falter, and then proceed, quieter than when they entered. You raise a hand and scrub furiously at the tear tracks left on your face. You take a steadying breath and raise your head just as Jade kneels next to you. She lights a second candle and bows her head. She's been crying too.

You hate her.

You hate her, but you can't hate her, because she is a sister and you know you share grief. Regardless, the anger seethes in your chest. It's childish, petulant, but you reach over, snuff her candle out with the tips of your fingers, and turn your head back to your own. It flickers quietly, the slightest snap in time with its movement. Jade's lips tremble, and methodically, carefully, she relights her candle. This time, you let it be.

"Was it quick?" you ask, your voice low and raspy from crying. Jade raises her head and squares her jaw.

"It was," she says, and you know it's a lie (she couldn't have known) but you appreciate it nonetheless. Words bubble in your throat and you can't hold them back.

"You killed my brother," you say, and her breath catches in her throat. She levels her eyes at you, the eyes from which she got her name that are rimmed with red now, and she looks so heartbroken.

"And yours killed mine," she replies, steel in her voice, and you realise then, that's the only way she's been dealing with the events of the past few days: rationalizing, finding a scapegoat and sticking to her guns. It disgusts you. How could she think that Dave, of all people, could have done something as despicable as… _that_? Your eyes narrow. Your heart clenches.

You slap her, a quick backhand that resounds with a snap and sends her reeling, her cheek stained red.

"You don't _know_ that," you snarl, and run a finger over the tip of your flame. It's close enough to burn if you held your finger there, but you're fast, and it's only heat. Jade draws back fractionally, a hand held against her red cheek. "We don't even know if John is dead, we never found a body! Just a bloody bed sheet and Caledscratch. But you and your father jumped to conclusions (because, of course, no one could have ever _put_ the sword there, preposterous!) and now we _know_ that Dave _is_ dead, you might as well have been the one to hold his head under water. He's dead, and I don't even have a body to bury."

You straighten your posture, raise your chin, and stand. You loom over Jade and she looks like she wants to shrink into the stones. Her lips are a thin line and her eyes shine and her fingers tremble. You have power over this girl and it feels wonderful, _right_.

And you hate that. You step back, give her some space.

She seems grateful for it, and her eyes shift away from you, fixating on the flickering flame of the candle you lit. "I'm sorry," she says, and she sounds so hollow. You incline your head.

"Thank you, for that," you say, and exit the cathedral, leaving just a bit of bridge unburned.

.

You shut the door behind you as quietly as you can, and take a deep breath, striding confidently down the hall. The torches cast uneven shadows, grotesque and elongated. You stumble, your lungs ache, and you start to run, gathering your skirts in your hands and _bolting_, slipper-clad feet slapping against the stones in an even rhythm, quick as a sparrow's heart.

Servants duck into alcoves to allow you to pass and avert their eyes. Your throat closes and a low keening starts deep, deep down. It builds and builds and you run down hallway after countless hallway. Your side aches and your lungs burn and once you're in an unused wing of the palace you stop and you scream, shoulders hunched up to your chin, hands covering ears and tangling in hair. Your face is twisted, eyes slammed shut and leaking tears.

On your way here you had passed your mother's chambers. Her door had been shut tight and there was no light filtering from beneath. You could smell the booze and hear her crying. That had been like a punch to the gut.

You're both mourning him, the brother, and the son. The dishonored not-quite Prince who won't get a grave or a place in the family crypt. The sea shall be his resting place and you'll never be able to look at sunlight sparkling on waves the same way ever again.

You sink to the floor, crumpling in on yourself, and eventually your screams peter out into quiet, hiccupping sobs. Time passes and even those sobs fade out, leaving you quiet, with your breath rasping and your hands shaking. You trace minute cracks in the marble floors with your fingers, nails picking into them and chipping off. The smooth surface is cold under your cheek. The chill lances up from the point of contact to infect the rest of your face. You shiver, and draw yourself up.

You run a hand over your face, and take shaking steps further into the gloom, away from the bustle of the rest of the palace. You have allies out here in the quiet halls, and you _need_ her. Her chambers are up a grand flight of stairs, and up one more of a less ostentatious wooden variety. Her room is nestled in the rafters, close to the light and blissfully quiet. Her door is slightly ajar, warm golden light spilling out into the hallway.

Hesitantly, you push through, slipping into the room. The fire in her hearth snaps merrily, and the curtains on her large windows are thrown open, letting in starlight and sea air. She sits on a stool, a canvas spread before her.

She glances at you and smiles, scoots over on her stool for you. She sets down the needle and thread and holds open her arms for you.

"Kanaya," you sigh, and fold into her embrace. She shooshes you, pets down your hair and holds you close.

"Hello, Rose," she responds, lips at your temple, and your fingers twist in her shirt. You pull her closer, your breath hitching in your throat. You're dangerously close to crying again. "It's very late."

You shake your head, pull back but not away. You wipe furiously at your eyes, and she catches your hands in her own, keeps them still. Her eyes are soft in the dim light, kind and understanding. Her hair is like night and her skin is parchment-white, glowing softly like starlight.

(Kanaya has always glowed, ever since she was very small and first came to Prospit. Apparently she had an accident when she was small, and she'd been changed permanently. She's a troll but she's also not, and she hates the stares she gets when she goes outside, even if she doesn't show it. You know this because she's told you. She'll only ever venture out of her quiet wing if she's with you, or if she's wearing the cloak you got her for her fifteenth birthday.)

You take a shuddering breath. "I haven't slept since last Friday."

Kanaya frowns, her brow creasing as she counts the days. "Five days? Really?"

You laugh thickly, duck your head. "Yes. I… would you have been able to sleep, in my position?"

Kanaya shrugs, worrying her lip along a fang. "I don't sleep much regardless, but I see your point. What were you doing, though? You weren't here, so I'd assume," she freezes. "Oh, you were…"

You nod. "With him. For the first two nights anyway, they wouldn't let me down there after that. I… I couldn't leave him down there in the dark, alone, and now-"

You blink quickly, and bite your tongue. Kanaya sighs, and lays a cool palm against your cheek. She leans in, and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Would you like to stay here tonight?"

You can't speak, but you nod, and she motions to the bed, pressed up under the windows. "Go on, then," she shoos you off the stool and you toe off your slippers, strip out of your dress and down to your slip. You look back just in time to see Kanaya averting her eyes, a small smile on her pretty features. She picks up the needle and thread again, turns back to the tapestry. She's created an image of an ocean storm battering a lighthouse, a small slip of a figure caught in the waves.

"I'll join you later, I'd like to finish this cloud," she says, tracing a claw along a roiling silver line. She glances back at you. "Goodnight, Rose."

Your lips turn up with the ghost of a smile, and, barefoot, you move to her bed, shifting the sheets and quilts and knitted throws to slip into it. Kanaya's bed is incredibly comfortable and warm and it smells like her (pumpkin and cinnamon and something very clean). You drift once you're settled, somewhere between waking and sleeping, breathing in and breathing out and listening to the quiet snicking of a needle through canvas and her humming as she sews.

You don't dream.

.

You wake, feeling considerably refreshed (at least physically, if not mentally) in the early afternoon of the following day, bright sunlight streaming in past the curtains – Kanaya must have drawn them at some point when you were asleep. The fire's burned to ash and blankets are twisted around you like vines, keeping your arms pinned to your sides and your legs hooked into a curled position. It takes a while for you to extricate yourself, and you wonder when Kanaya joined you and then left, or if she slept at all.

You're betting on the latter. Her tapestry is beautiful in the golden light, all chaos and silver and blue. Knowing Kanaya, it's still far from being done. She'll probably spend at least two more weeks on it, before moving to the next one.

She picked your dress up off the floor and draped it over her writing desk, your shoes set primly on the floor in front of it. You slide into it, grimacing. You'll have to pick up something new from your chambers, this one's got dust and tear stains all over it. Normally you'd nab something from Kanaya's wardrobe, but she grew nearly six inches over the summer and now her clothes would dwarf your small frame.

That, and the rich green she favors clashes with your eyes.

Out of courtesy you attempt to straighten up the mess you've made of her bed. It works rather well, and you leave her room looking tidy and well-kept.

In the immediate vicinity of the hall it's quiet, but you can hear the hum of life not too far off, reverberating through the stones. It's subdued, more than usual. The castle is mourning its princes (even though Dave was never technically a prince, not by blood, anyway). You lean against the wall and wonder if Dirk will be in at the blacksmith's today. You'd like to speak with him. The man calls himself your brother, but you know better, and you always have. His cheekbones and posture are too much like yours and his jawline and eyes are too much like what Dave's would have become for him to simply be a brother.

You start down the hallway in the direction of the quiet humming, but think better of it, turning on your heel and darting back into Kanaya's room. You move to her windows and throw the latch on one, pushing it open carefully. A rich sea breeze assaults your nose and you gingerly step over the sill and onto the warm tiles of the roof. You sit on the sill and remove your slippers, holding them in one hand and wiggling your bare toes on the roofing. You stand, and push the window closed once more gently.

This is your preferred means of travel. You and John were always similar in that respect.  
You climb the slope of the roof, coming to rest on its spine. From here, you can see the whole of Prospit, the mercantile district near to the south, residential to the east, farmland to the north. The palace itself dominates the western part of the city, and indeed it is like a city in its own right. Below you are shops and taverns and apartments, all bustling under the shadows of the four towers. They shine like silver, mimicking the great expanse of the sea. You can see the docks, ships coming and going, most bearing the Skaian seal. There's a new ship docked there today, one that wasn't there yesterday.

It's a grand affair, from what you can see. Dersite, and massive: humans, trolls, and carapicians like ants on its blackwood deck. A purple banner snaps crisply, but you can't make out the insignia from here.

How curious.

You put it out of your mind and turn your back to the ocean (even looking at it makes you feel nauseous). You stretch your arms out for balance, shoes dangling from the fingers of your right hand, and walk foot after foot down the spine of the roof. The breeze pulses around you, the sun beats down on your neck, and you still feel cold.

You navigate the roofs, jumping over gaps that have fifty foot drops with practiced ease, sliding down drainpipes, and climbing up vines. You make excellent time and stop at a window that opens onto a ledge in a grand hallway, thirty feet above the floor. You continue, barefoot, inside, your feet stirring paths in the dust that's accumulated there.

There's not as much dust as you would have expected though, and something glints behind the statue of a dog, ten feet in front of you. You frown, and creep towards it, reaching to pluck it from its hiding place. It's a little tin solider, a scrap of paper rolled in the hollow of his chest. You bite your lip and pull the paper out, unrolling the tiny scroll with care.

You sink into a cross-legged position, back propped up against the wall and toes safely away from the edge and any prying eyes.

It's a note, and the scrawling handwriting is terribly familiar.

_rose! (i know you'll be the one to read this note because you're the only one besides me who uses the ledges to get around)_

_so anyway, i hid dave's birthday present beneath the floorboards in your room. i hope you don't mind. i'm telling you because i know i'll forget and i'm going to need you to remind me! (i know you'll remember because you remember everything)_

_also, tag, you're it!_

_John_

Your throat constricts and you crumple the paper, hurl it away from you. It lands on the ledge on the other side of the hallway, makes tracks in the dust. You gasp out a sob, and raise your arm to throw the tin soldier away as well, but think better of it. You loosen your grip on it, you've been holding it tight enough for his little fake sword to make your hand bleed, and through watery vision you see John painted his coat blue. You sniff, and wipe at your eyes. You tuck the toy into a pocket, and drag yourself to your feet.

Your brothers are dead (well, Dave is and John… John probably is as well). The very thought makes you sick to your stomach and your head spin. You'll keep everything you can of them, because you miss them. You lean against the dog statue for support, pressing your forehead against its shoulder. The carved fur is smooth under your fingertips. You take a shuddering breath, and move forward, supporting yourself on the wall.

You want your mother. Not the woman she is now, drowning in grief and alcohol, the woman she was when you and Dave were small, strong and brave and kind, comforting you when you fell from a ledge and broke your arm, telling you stories at night before you went to sleep.

Your feet move slowly, sluggishly. The toy soldier knocks against your hip. The grand doors below you open up and there is the king, with his entourage of guards. He looks beaten down and ill, and, viciously, you think '_good_'. Redglare walks at his side, perfectly poised, gaze unreadable behind her red-tinted glasses, her horns rising above her inky black hair like spearheads. There's another troll-boy with her, one you've never seen before. His horns look like they're crumpled and he had a ridiculous purple streak in his hair. His face is twisted, like he's permanently seeing something distasteful, but his eyes are wide and bright.

They draw closer and your retreat into the shadow of a statue, watching them from above. The acoustics of the hallway are great and you can hear every word of theirs as if you were walking with them as well.

"We hope you'll enjoy your stay here, Prince Eridan," Redglare says, and her glasses slip minutely when she moves her head. Her eyes are bruised, and she looks just as exhausted as the king. "If you require anything, just let someone know and they'll do their best to accommodate you, or find someone who can."

The boy – Eridan – inclines his head minutely, glances around the hallway critically, his sneer planted firmly on his face. He has a strange accent when he speaks. "You're very kind," he says, and his eyes pass over your hiding place. For a moment, you believe he might have spotted you, and you prepare to bolt, but then his eyes slide over you and you relax. He gestures instead to a door. "Are these my chambers?"

Oh, that's right. You're in the guest wing. Slowly, you edge away.

"You would be correct," says the king, speaking around his pipe. "Please, feel free to explore the castle. Would you like someone to give you a tour?"

Eridan steps forward, his ridiculous cape swishing along the floor. You stifle a giggle. He leans over to inspect the wood of the door. "I'm all right, thanks. When's dinner?"

"We'll send someone when it's ready," the king says, blowing a smoke ring to the ceiling.

You turn heel and creep away as fast as you're able.

.

The rooms you shared with Dave are too big and too cold, resounding in their emptiness and gathering dust. Books lay open, strewn out on the table. The curtains are drawn, candles burned down to the quick. You can see through a half open door that Dave's bed is still unmade. You haven't returned here since Friday morning, when the royal guards barged in and dragged him away.

And now Dave's not coming back.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you reach for the knob, and shut his door with a gentle snick, then retreat to your bedroom. You walk carefully over the floorboards, wondering what it was that John hid for Dave, and where. You don't know if you want to find it, knowing now that it's a gift from a dead boy to a dead boy. You throw open the curtains, letting light into the room. Eddies of dust swirl in the glow, and you sneeze. You slip out of your dirty dress, set your slippers down near the window neatly, along with the toy soldier. The dress goes into the laundry chute along with your undergarments.

You're naked and your window is wide open but you aren't worried. The only rooms taller than yours are in the towers, and they're on the other side of the grounds. You open your wardrobe and slip into new underwear and a pair of cotton trousers. After some deliberation, you select an embroidered orange tunic to go over the top. There's a mirror propped up against your wall and you see yourself in it: a stick of a girl with blonde, messy hair and violet circles under violet eyes. You look like hell. Your shirt hangs loosely over your frame, looser than it did before, and you remember that you haven't been eating.

Your stomach rumbles, and you blink.

You should probably fix that.

You leave your chambers still very much barefoot. For a moment you weigh the consequences of running into people versus running into another of John's 'Tag-you're-it' notes. You stay on the ground, and stick to the walls of corridors, ducking behind statues to avoid the questioning stares of servants. You're a shadow in a sea of light, and you're moving quickly towards the kitchens but damn, the sparse crowds are thickening, you'd forgotten how many people lingered in a castle, and you're seriously considering scaling the walls and ignoring any tin soldiers you come across-

You run into someone, nose in chest and arms all akimbo. The two of you fall to the ground, someone distinctly not-you shrieking and flailing. Your head hits the marble floor and for a moment you see stars, mind floating. You snap back to your body just in time to be pushed off the chest of a troll-boy and save your head another unfortunate encounter with the floor.

You blink, wetness trickling from your forehead into your eye. Your vision takes a moment to come into focus, and when it does, you almost burst out laughing. How comical.

You've run smack into Prince Eridan: the Visiting Prince from God-Knows-Where (although, seeing his purple colour scheme you can make an educated guess. But who knows, maybe he's one of Those Trolls who still diligently adheres to the hemocaste system).

As such, you manage to stifle your giggles, and it's probably a smart thing, considering how angry he looks, with his hair rumpled and glasses askew. Somehow his cape ended up draped over his horns and he glares at you from under it. You bite your lip, stagger to your feet.

"Sorry about that," you say, and offer a hand to help him up. He swats your hand away and you frown, holding your hand to your chest. That hurt, actually. He staggers to his feet on his own, swaying dangerously. He straightens his cape with a haughty snap and you roll your eyes. "I didn't see you there."

"Obviously," he bites out, gritting his teeth and hissing. He eyes your bare feet with contempt. You sigh heavily.

"Well then, if you'll excuse me, I'll just be on my way," you say, and move to step around him. Quick as a flash, his hand grabs your arm, squeezes. You're not even sure if he realizes he's doing it. Your eyes flash from your forearm, his nails so close to piercing your skin. You narrow your gaze. He sneers back at you. "Release me."

"You've got a lot of attitude. I'd have assumed that your superiors would have gotten rid of that trait," he says, letting your arm go with a flourish. You realise that he must think you're a servant. Not surprising, given the state of your appearance. Inwardly, you laugh. Outwardly, you only give the slightest of smirks. You decide you'll let this play out, and reap whatever rewards come your way.

"My apologies, sir," you say, giving a curtsy. You smile at the floor. Eridan sniffs.

"Accepted," he replies. "I need you to escort me back to my chambers. I appear to have gotten my corridors, ah, confused."

"Oh yes," you say, playing demure servant for all its worth. "These castles are all very convoluted. I'll be happy to lead you back, sir."

Eridan preens at the 'sir'. You hide a grin behind a hand, and motion that he follows you.

You still go to the kitchen, and snag a few apples, a jar of cider, and a roll.

"One moment, sir, I have to deliver these," you say, and dart around a corner and scale a façade, tucking your food into an angel's wing, making a note to retrieve them later. You hop down behind Eridan, and he jumps, purple flushing up into his face. You smile sweetly. "Shall we continue?"

You do lead him back to his rooms. You also follow the most complicated, roundabout path you can think of. You avoid the roofs and the ledges, though. Those places are yours and John's alone (yours now, you suppose), and anyway, Eridan probably wouldn't be able to get himself up the first tapestry. By the time you're in the guest wing, Eridan's practically steaming and his face is purple with irritation. The fins on the side of his face are flared out and his accent is thicker than ever when he speaks.

"Thanks for getting me back here," he says, and it's so forced it's almost not funny. You cock your head and smile.

"Not a problem, sir."

"What's your name, again?" he asks, and your smile turns into a smirk.

"Rose, sir," you say, and flip him a lazy salute before absconding.

You can't wait to see his face at dinner.

.

Without thinking, you take the ledges and the roof back to your hidden food.

You run into three toy soldiers, and you lose your appetite.


	3. JADE

_new chapter - jade's pov this time ya nerds. in case you havent caught on yet: pov will change every chapter._

_alternative tags: plot_

.

JADE

.

(he disappears into the water screaming and oh god what have you done what have you done what)

.

You're fine. You're absolutely, positively fine, tucked into your father's side as the boat slides through the inky water, back to shore. You're fine, you're not crying. It's dark and the lantern has gone out, it's not like anyone could have proved anything anyway.

Prospit glows on the shore. You're going home, and there are no more snakes you're holding to your chest. It's finished. It's done as dust.

And you're fine.

.

Rose is beautiful and broken in the candlelight, her shards more elegant and poised than yours could ever be.

(not that you have any shards. You're fine, absolutely fine)

She watches you and you're frightened, and then she hits you and you're terrified, sick to your stomach when she leaves, gown swishing and back straight. Your breath catches in your throat and your eyes return to the two candles lit. They flicker in tandem, one for John, one for Dave.

You wonder now if you ought to light one for Rose as well. You wonder if you've lost a sister as well as two brothers. (because that's what Dave was, a brother, a viper, a murderer, nothing more)

You bow your head, and tremble.

.

_"John!" you stretch out the vowel, moving down the hallway his rooms are on. Sunlight streams through windows and you catch flashes of blue and purple soldiers set around the ceiling. You smile, rest a hand on the doorknob. "John, you sleepyhead. Wake up, it's after noon!"_

_You push on the door, frown when you meet resistance. You push harder, and grunt when it finally gives. You enter the room, and your heart all but stops. Your eyes widen._

_The entire room is in disarray, furniture flipped and torn. The curtains are in a heap on the floor, the mirror is a shattered mess, like the window. A breeze snakes through the cracked pane, goes straight to your spine._

_"John?" you start, hesitantly. You edge to his cracked open door._

_You enter his bedroom. A scream bubbles in your throat. The windows are thrown wide, crystalline sunlight falling on so much red, so much red._

_Oh god, there is red everywhere, too much red and the red is blood, blood soaking into the mattress and the pillows and there is a sword, thrown across the floor, dripping in the red and you get closer and_

_God_

_Oh god_

_That's Dave's sword._

_(later, when you show up at his rooms with a contingent of guards, your heart is hard as steel, and he smiles lazily at you with a bare chest and messy hair and red eyes straight from sleep._

_"Jade, what are you doing here?" _

_"Jade?"_

_You hadn't believed it, before, when people told you that his eyes were a mark of evil._

_But you can see it now)_

.

Eventually, you leave the cathedral, and go back to your rooms. You draw the curtains tight against the moonlight, making your room as dark as the womb, and burrow deep under your covers, silk sliding gentle over your bare skin. You bite your tongue hard enough for it to bleed, and the blood tastes sour on the back of your throat. You swallow it, wordlessly, and shake and shake and shake

(have you done what have you done _what have you **done**_)

.

You sleep, dreaming that you're deep underwater. You're deaf and you're blind and there is water in your throat and his voice in your ears and you know his fingers when they skate over your ribcage, colder still than the cold water.

You open your eyes. You can see, where you had been unable to before.

He floats in the water before you, mouth agape in a silent scream or a plea for help, you don't know. Darkness writhes around him like tentacles, like great hulking things, he reaches out for you and the shadows follow his skeletal hands.

You struggle back, but you can't move, there is a weight around your feet and your hands are tied in chafing ropes behind your back. He is close to you now, and you can feel the rot wafting off him. His scream turns to a smile, popping, grotesque, and his teeth are so sharp-

.

You wake, and you throw open the curtains. Your heart beats like a hammer in your chest, a silenced scream still raw in your throat.

It's still dark outside. You don't care, you slip into a long black tunic and you slip from your room, snaking your way through silent halls up and up and down and down. You take switchbacks and stick to the tomb-quiet grand hallways. The smaller servant halls, tucked behind armor and tapestries, still glow, and voices still drift from them. Your eyes are attuned to the dark and it takes you no time at all to find yourself in front of a scarred wooden door. It's familiar.

You haven't returned here since Friday, and nothing's changed. Books are still open on the coffee tables; candles still drip their wax onto the dark wood. You gather that Rose hasn't been back either.

You stand in the center of the room, frozen, bare feet growing colder and thus more tolerant to the chill. A breeze snakes from one of the rooms. Rose's. You go there first. It's infinitely easier than braving the second door. The floorboards squeak under your feet, worn smooth. A few shift, minutely. Moonlight shines in from her open window, casting silver glow across the contents of the room. You draw them, casting the room into darkness. There's a mirror on the wall. You avoid it.

You wonder where Rose is, now, and if she's sleeping. You hope she is.

Quietly, quietly, you leave her room, shutting the door gently behind you.

Next, the second room.

His scent lingers there still. You breathe deeply and it constricts in your throat. Your head spins, and you sit on the edge of his bed, fingers curling into his rumpled red sheets. There are paintings on the wall. You remember when he painted them, golden in summer sunlight, a smile on his face.

(he had tasted like honey wine and ginger, when you'd kissed him, and his smile had only broadened)

A small, choked sound escapes your throat. You cover your mouth with your hand and your eyes well up. You squeeze them shut, keening low in your lungs. Your free hand leaves the sheets, grabs the bedpost, and you grip it tightly, bracing yourself. Your shoulders arch forward, and in your minds eyes there is nothing but water and apple orchards and red so much red so much red.

(what have you done?)

"I want to know _why_." You whisper, words swallowed up like the room is an ocean.

Quieter, "I'm so sorry."

You take the paintings with you when you leave. Your father would have had them burned.

.

The following day, the sun is shining and the skies are blue. You wear a sleeveless summer dress and sit in a garden, waiting for the sun to warm your ice cold skin. You wait for a very long time, and eventually you move from the center of the lawn to the shade of the oak tree. The bark is rough and cool under your skin, the light shining through the leaves onto your skin is green and dappled. You bite your lip.

You had brought a book out with you, and now you run your hands absentmindedly over the cover. It's a copy of _The Universe and its Complexities, a Novel_. It's one of your favorite books, given to you by Rose when you were both seven. The story is old, written maybe four hundred-ish years ago by an anonymous author. It's about a group of children who go on an adventure and have to save their world. You made John read it out loud to you, and you'd spent several evenings in front of the fire with him reading in his stilting, boy-child voice, Rose and Dave draped across the rug near you, listening in rapture.

You miss those times, when everything was simple and everyone was friends.

Your eyes well up and you thumb open the book, the leather of the cover crackling under your fingertips. You lift the book to your face and breathe in deeply. You're being sentimental but the worn paper smells like those evenings, warm, with fire crackling in the background. Something shifts in the pages, and a paper flutters to the ground. You blink, and reach for it, turning it over.

It's a letter, a note, really, your name written in blue ink. Your heart stops, rises in your throat. Your fingers shake, and you open the folds. The date reads a couple weeks ago, and you think he intended for you to read this note sooner than you did. You swallow, and read.

_jade, do you know of any good smiths out in the city? I'm repairing caledscratch for dave's birthday and i've got the sword but i'll admit i'm sort of useless in repairing things!_

_anyway if you could get back to me as soon as you can that would be awesome! Also don't tell dave, it's going to be a surprise_

_john_

.

(your eyes are burning and your mind is racing and your lungs hurt)


	4. iv

_new? chapter? more is coming_

.

iv

.

_You're young and hiding behind the drapes in your mother's study, grinning and breathless and struggling to keep quiet because she's not here yet, but she will be soon and if your brother taught you one thing about playing hide and seek magnificently, it's that you've got to stay quiet. Silence is key, even if you've mastered the art of hiding, like you have. Your toes aren't even poking out from under the curtain this time, you checked._

_You can just see the study from a crack in the drapes and you watch the door. She enters, tall and lithe, her eyes soft and mouth curved into a gentle smile. You stifle a giggle in your throat, and she ducks behind bookcases, under her desk and the other tables, crooning all the while:_

_"Darling," she draws out the syllables, turning it singsong. "I'm gonna find you!"_

_You press a hand over your mouth, and grin into the skin of your palm._

_"Where are you hiding, dear? Where are you?"_

.

(whereareyouwhereareyou ?)

.

_Your cell has a single window, high up the wall and tiny, and it lets in moonlight at night. You kneel the pool of silver light and think of absolutely nothing at all. Not of John, who is… missing. Not Jade, of the black-feather hair and acid green eyes. Certainly not of Rose, and the panic she must be feeling. _

_You are blank like paper, waiting, because obviously there's been a mistake. Some sort of confusion that'll be cleared up quickly because they can't honestly believe that you would- that you would._

_Your wrists are growing scabs where the irons chafe. Your cuticles are torn bloody and there are rats crawling over the sleeping body in the cell across the hall from you. It stinks of bile and piss and other foul things and it is mind-achingly quiet. You tap out a beat on the stone floors, brushing away the prickling straw to get to it._

_The floors are old, you think as your index finger goes taptaptap, and things have been carved into them. Tallies, doodles, confessionals, it's a gritty mirror to the school desks you saw on your trips into town. Your thumb joins your index finger, the beat progressing to a tap-bap-pap-taptap sort of rhythm. The little movements shift your chains and they clink. _

_The old man across the way shifts, grunts, the rats on him scurry away screeching in their little voices and then he growls at you "Keep it the fuck down, kid." He cracks open one eye and illness hangs around the whites of it, turns it yellow and red and crusting. You still your fingers, drag yourself to the wall to watch the end of the hallway._

_You sneak glances at the old man, who falls back asleep and hardly twitches as the rats return, sniffing around his beard. You wonder what he did, to be locked up in the dungeons and forgotten about. You almost wonder if this is what will happen to you, before you stop yourself, remind yourself that you're still a prince, and they wouldn't leave you down here to rot._

_You clear your mind, lean your head back to rest against cold stone._

_Locks clank and the iron door that guards the dungeon opens with a squeal of rusting hinges. Muffled voices speak in hushed tones, lantern light swinging toward you and casting long shadows down the hall before their owners swing into view. You know them both, Terezi, with her red lenses and shark like face, arms and legs like razors stuffed into trousers and blue collared shirt. Her horns spindle into daggers above her ratty hair and she looks dreadfully grim._

_And then there's Rose, her mouth set into a line of grim determination and dress skirts swishing around her ankles. There are dark circles under her eyes and she looks tense._

_"You're going to ruin that dress down here," you say, and she snorts._

_"I don't care," she says, and takes the lantern from Terezi, who moves back to the bend in the hall and waits, politely out of earshot. Rose moves to you unsteadily, blinking and swaying, like she can't quite process all the information flooding her brain. Which is ridiculous. Rose is never at a loss, and it's deeply unsettling to you, seeing her like this. She sinks to her knees right next to the bars of your cell, setting the lantern down next to her, and you're drawn to it, the gold light, the gold heat._

_She stares at you, and eventually, you break the silence, sighing. _

_"What are you doing here, Rose?" you ask, and her lip twists._

_"Oh, I can't come check up on my brother, see how the dungeons are treating him?" her face smooths again, though her voice remains unsteady. "I was worried, Dave. I still am."_

_"Now why would you think that?" you say, and her breath hitches, almost indiscernibly._

_You offer her a grin, reach through the bars as best as you can and take her hand. She stays limp, hesitant, for only a moment, before her hand tightens on yours and she reaches through the bars, pulls you closer. She's warm, fever hot, and you let yourself melt into her awkward hold on you._

_"I am always worried about you," she says, voice muffled into your shoulder, and you run your hand over her hair, make a shooshing sound._

_"You shouldn't be. Just watch, it'll take them a day to get their heads on straight and then everything will be fine," you say, and her fingers twist in your shirt._

_"You haven't seen it, Dave. You haven't been up there, everyone's scared and no one's thinking rationally and it's pandemonium," she trails off, choking down a sob. She continues, quieter. "They want you dead."_

_Ice pools in your stomach and your thumb rubs circles into Rose's back. She trembles, grasps your hand tighter, popping bones. "Everything's going to be fine," you say, and you're proud of how your voice doesn't crack or tremble but Rose shakes her head._

_"Please don't lie to me," she says, and it's like a physical blow. You hold her tighter, and it's awkward through the bars but you need to give this to her now._

_"Tough," you say, your voice as hard as stone. She sobs-laughs into your neck. _

_There's a commotion from down the hall, and Terezi flies to you, cursing under her breath._

_"Rose, we need to go now," she snaps, though she looks apologetic. Rose draws back from you, her eyes wide, and she draws a small loaf of bread from the folds of her skirt and slips it between the bars to your free hand. She untangles from you, her movements jilted and hurried._

_"I'm sorry, I'll come back when I can," she says, stooping to retrieve the lantern from the floor, and then she and Terezi are gone, shadows flickering on the wall and then not even that._

_You're left in a pool of moonlight, bread in hand and pressed against the bars of your cell and you feel very, very cold._

.

(where)

.

_Your mother is creeping steadily closer to your hiding spot and the sunlight is warm on your back and your giggles are getting harder and harder to stifle._

_"Where are you, you little rascal? Don't be telling me Dirk's taught you some of his ninja shi- stuff, you're not much taller than my knee!" _

_Your face hurts from the amount of smiling you're doing. You decide that this game isn't fair, it must be rigged in your mom's favor, because if this were your bro or James or Jade you were playing with you would dominate. Your mom's toying with you now, you know it, because the 'hiding spots' she's checking are getting sillier and sillier. You might have fit in the filing cabinet but there's no way you'd be able to hide properly behind a coat-rack._

_Your body shakes with the laughter you're suppressing. You squeeze your eyes shut, bite hard on your lip. The heat of your hiding place is sweltering. "Where are you?" she singsongs, closer than she was before, and you force your limbs to be still and silent and then-_

_She's there crashing through the curtains, picking you up and spinning you through the air and your laughter is free and rings around the room._

_"Found you!"_

.

You wake up.


	5. ROSE ii

_new chapter! more to come_

_also notes regarding the story at the bottom. cheers!_

.

ROSE

.

Kanaya finds you tucked onto a ledge in the late afternoon, when the shadows are elongated and the sunlight is golden. She picks her way across the roof with care, her lip bit in concentration and arms held half out for balance. She's got a golden dress draped across her arm, and she stops about five paces away from where you're curled, kneeling down.

"Your mother wants you to get ready for the dinner," she says, eyeing your leggings and tunic shrewdly. "I've run a bath for you near my chambers, if you'd like."

You draw in a shuddering breath, and loosen your clenched fists. The tin men have left deep red indents in your skin. Your joints feel stiff and you wonder how long you've been sitting here. You nod. "Yes, okay."

Kanaya rises to her feet, and walks over to you, helps you stand. You take the dress from her and run your hands over the fabric. It's one of your nicer gowns. You haven't worn it since your last birthday. It's all yellows and golds, black lace, white stitching, and high collars. The epitome of fashion. You give it back to Kanaya before your stained hands can dirty it, and you let her lead you back over the rooftops to her little wooden hall.

She has a claw foot tub in the washroom across the way from her bedchamber. It steams, smells of spices and light perfumes. The windows are high up and frosted, and the lamps cast an even glow across the tile floors. Exposed pipes clank comfortingly in the small space. Kanaya lays the dress on a shelf, away from where it might get wet, and she helps ease you out of your clothes, and you hear her murmuring to you comfortingly, as if from a great distance.

You shiver, and she pries open your left hand.

Oh. You were still holding the tin men. You let them go and a small stream of blood seeps from the skin between your index finger and thumb. Kanaya sets them on a towel and returns with a second towel for you, and she gently sponges away the blood.

You shiver. The tiles are cold on your bare feet. Kanaya's eyes are soft, and her hands are gentle as she leads you to the tub.

"God, Rose," she says, running a comforting hand up and down your spine, lingering on every one of your ribs, like she's counting. "When was the last time you ate?"

"I meant to this morning," you mumble, leaning in to her. "But I didn't get around to it. So it's been a few days, I suppose."

Kanaya hums lowly. You twist your head up to look at her, and there's a disapproving crease between her brows. She shakes her head, sighing lightly, and she gently nudges you closer to the tub. You can feel the heat wafting off it. "Right. Go on then, in you go."

You rest a hand on the lip, and dip in a finger, two, and then sink in your hand. The warmth is lovely and you relax, not having realised you'd been tensed. She helps you over the ledge and you sink down in the water to your chin. Kanaya pulls up a wooden stool, sits right by the edge and rolls up her sleeves. She dips a rag in the water and runs it over your forehead.

You smile at her. It's a weak thing, but it's there nonetheless.

"I've missed you," you say. Her eyebrow quirks, and she wets down your hair.

"You've seen me nearly daily," she says, and you shift, rest a hand on her forearm. She pauses, leans down and meets your eyes.

"All the same," you say, and press a quick kiss to her lips. "I've missed you. Can you tell me a story?"

Kanaya cants her head, leans forward to snag another kiss, a hand trailing on your cheek, brushing your wet hair behind your ear. She smiles against your skin. "I'll see what I can do."

She pulls away, reaches for a glass jar and dips three fingers into the soap, pulling out a glob and lathering it. She drags the stool with her foot and seats herself behind you, working the lather into your scalp and hair. It's been growing longer, lately, and her fingers work gently through tangles that you didn't even know were there. You lean into her touch, closing your eyes. Soon enough, she starts to speak, her voice crisp and quiet.

"A long time ago, in a kingdom to the north, there was a queen. This queen was much beloved by all who knew her, and tales of her wit and her beauty spread to all the corners of the globe. Under her rule, her kingdom prospered. But all was not well, for while the queen was beautiful and shrewd with her dealings, she had a hard heart, and secretly she exploited her people, and stole the threads of their life away from them, and wove them into a cloak for her own use.

"However, she could not keep her coveted cloak secret forever, and soon enough word spread to a frog, who lived in the east. Now, the frog was known for his intolerance of evil and unkind souls, and the queen was both of these. He traveled for many days and many nights from the domain where he was the lord, a lake hidden within an ocean of grass, and after a full cycle of the moon, he arrived in the great capital of her corrupted kingdom, and took the form of a young girl as a disguise. He gained audience with the queen on the first Tuesday of the New Year, and he bowed before her.

"'Good morrow, my fair lady,' he said, and the queen smiled from her throne, a rehearsed and meaningless expression.

"'Yes, my dearest child?' she asked, and there was no honesty in her voice. The frog saw the truth of her, and he also saw how her citizens could see only the façade she put up. 'What is it that you require?'

"The frog knew the truth of her, but he also hoped that there might be a spark of goodness left in her, and so he tested her with a fabrication. 'I come from the farms that lie outside the walls. My family has been set upon by a poor year of crops, milady, and I hoped that I might gain a loan from you, to ease the tightness of our wallets, and help fill my sibling's starving bellies.' The frog could see the mountains of gold behind her throne, and he saw her eyes turn to ice, her grin cruel and sharp and fueled by greed.

"'My child,' she started, mournful and low. 'I cannot do this for you, and for that you have my humblest apologies.'

"The frog, in the guise of a girl, nodded. 'So be it,' he said, and with that, he shed his disguise, and stood as his true self before her. The queen cowered, for she recognized him, as tales of his avenging magic had spread far and fast for many years, and her cloak of stolen souls was wrapped tightly around her shoulders.

"'Forgiveness, Lord!' she shouted, prostrating herself fully and flinging gold at him. The frog sighed, for riches could not pay off her sins.

"'My lady,' he said, reaching out for her. 'You have a hard heart, and have been judged and found guilty of heinous crimes. For that, you must pay.' She sobbed and cried and screamed but it did no good, for as soon as his finger brushed her skin she was transformed into a mouse, quivering in her piles of gold, the cloak of stolen souls around her, and for the first time, she could hear their screams, their pleas, and her heart hurt for it. 'You shall live without splendor, and learn what it is to be unloved and poor, hunted and hated, and you shall never die. Go.'

"The mouse fled, and the frog released the souls in her cloak, bidding them to move south. Time passed, and the kingdom, bereft of a ruler, fell into ruin. Drought after drought was inflicted upon them, and soon nothing was left of it but the bleached bones of a city and shifting sands, where the mouse still lives," Kanaya finished the story with a flourish, dipping her hands in the water to rid them of soap.

You frown, tilting your head. "Kanaya," you start, and she hums in response. "That was a shit story."

She pauses, and you twist to look at her. Her expression is unreadable. "Oh?"

"Yes," you say, pursing your lips. "There was no redemption, no happy ending."

"And you could do better?" she asks, her voice dangerously low, almost a growl. You smirk, spread your fingers near the surface of the bath.

"I should think so," you say, and yelp when Kanaya grabs your shoulders and pushes you down, dunking you in the water. She pulls you back up periodically for breath, while she rinses the soap out of your hair. Finally she stops, drapes you over the side of the tub, your wet hair dripping into your eyes. She leans in, kisses you on the cheek.

"You really shouldn't insult my stories when I am giving you a bath, Rose," she says, a smile in her voice, and you grin, pushing your hair away from your face. She stands up and moves away from the tub, shaking out a towel. "Okay, you're done. Come on out, let's get you dressed."

She supports you on an arm while you clamber over the side, hissing when the warm soles of your feet hit the chill tile. Kanaya wastes no time in wrapping the towel around you, grabbing another and fluffing your hair with it. You stand still and she buzzes around you, drying the damp off of your skin. Finally she steps back, eyes you critically, and grabs the dress, quickly unbuttoning the back and holds it open for you.

"Go on then," she says. "Hop in."

You grab her shoulder for support and slip out of your towel, sliding into the silken skirts. They're incredibly soft against your skin and your slip your arms into the sleeves, buttoning them up your forearms. Kanaya's fingers flit against your back as she hooks in the buttons. You take the laces of the corset and yank on them so it's tight against your ribcage, but not constricting. She finishes with the buttons and steps back, smiling.

"You look lovely," she says, and leads you by the hand to the basin, where she hands you an assortment of makeup and orders you to put it on while she pins back your hair with a net of pearls. You shade your eyes with orange, your lips with a pale shade of violet.

"I don't want to do this," you say, chalking in your left eyes. She tucks in a stray strand of hair and rests a hand against your shoulder, comforting through the cloth. "I feel like nobody is allowing me to mourn."

Kanaya envelopes you in a hug, hooking her chin just over your shoulder and laying a kiss to your jawline. "I know. It must be done, though. Make an appearance, and then excuse yourself early if you need to. I'll be waiting here."

You reach for her hand, clasp it tight. "I want you to come with me."

She sighs. "Rose, that would be improper. You'll be fine. Now, chin up, I've sent for Dirk to come collect you, and you still need to pick a necklace."

From a box on a shelf she pulls five necklaces. You hesitate for only a moment before you pick the one with the charcoal pearls. She helps fasten the clasp and it rests as a soft weight on your chest. You slip into your shoes, and return to the mirror.

"Look at you," she murmurs. "You are stunning."

You can't see it. Your eyes are dead in their shadowed sockets and your cheeks are still gaunt. The dress, for all its prettiness, hangs off your skeleton frame. You try smiling, and it looks like a grimace, twisted and wrong on your features. Kanaya gives your hand a reassuring squeeze.

There's a soft knock at the door, and Dirk slips in, face inscrutable and shoulders held tight. His mouth twitches when he sees you, like he might be trying to smile but the signals aren't going through properly. His face looks bruised, three red streaks down the side of his cheek. He holds out an arm for you, and Kanaya nudges you forward.

"We'd best be getting going," he says, voice a low rumble, and you take his arm, feeling very small at his side. He's nearly two heads taller than you, so you suppose that that makes sense. He seems to draw you closer, almost protectively, and you wonder how difficult it was for him, being out on that boat that night. It seems like so long ago. "Thanks, Kan, for getting her ready."

She inclines her head, ever gracious, and shoots a gentle smile your way. "Any time, sir."

Dirk snorts. "I'm no sir," he says, and the two of you sweep out of the room. You glance back once, and Kanaya blows you a kiss.

.

Your footsteps echo in the halls and you walk in silence, bathed in amber light from windows on high. Any staff that you pass freeze in their conversations and watch you go by in dead silence.

"I'm sorry," Dirk says, as you round a corner, and you laugh humorlessly.

"What for? It's not like you had any choice in the matter," you choke out. Dirk swallows audibly, and his jaw works up and down for a moment.

"I could have done something," he protests, his shoulders hunching in. The movement twists your arm slightly, and you wince, extricate yourself from his grip and instead lay a hand on his forearm.

"We both know that's not true," you say, meeting his eyes, and in that moment he looks so much like Dave that your breath catches and you feel like you've been socked in the gut. You swallow, and plow forward. "If you'd tried anything, it would have only brought us more misfortune. You would have been killed, and mother and I would have been imprisoned, at the very least."

He looks away, and his pace quickens. You have to nearly run in order to keep up.

"I remember." he swallows, his lips twist, and he tries again. "I remember when you both were just babies. I held you both in an arm each and I," his voice breaks. "I promised I'd _protect _you."

He holds a hand to the scratches on his cheeks. You think of your mother, drunk and grieving and lashing out at him. That must have been what happened. You stop, pulling him to a standstill, and lean forward, wrap your arms around him, and rest your head against his chest. His arms come up and crush you to him, like he's reassuring himself that you're still there (that he's not failed completely as a father).

"I know," you say. "I understand."

.

_A word on the family structure in this story: Dirk and Roxy had Rose and Dave (twins) when they were both hardly out of their teens. They were not married._

_Roxy, a lady of the court, caught the eye of the young widower king, James Egbert, who had two children, John and Jade (John was older than Jade by about a year, Rose and Dave being born somewhere between the two)._

_Roxy and James were married when the kids were all somewhere between eight and nine years old, Dirk became the palace blacksmith, the kids grew up, and the rest, as they say, is history._

_REGARDING THE NATURE OF THIS STORY: this story will employ four or more storylines that run parallel to each other and converge at some point in the future. as youve likely guessed, the pov of each chapter is denoted by the chapter title. chapters left untitled feature pov characters that will be revealed at a future time. ouo_


	6. JADE ii

_new chapter, things start happening for realsies._

_ish._

.

JADE

.

The afternoon draws to a close and you are gone, slipping out of the palace walls with practiced ease, a cloak drawn tight around you, hood drawn low over your head. You ought to be at dinner with everyone else but you have errands to run, suspicions to be proved or disproved. You tighten your hands around the bundle clutched against you. Its heavy in your hands, and you loathe to touch it, even with the layer of canvas wrapped around it.

The sky is darkening over the city, but it is not slowing down. People, trolls, carapaces still mill around, bartering and haggling and living. Life as normal, despite the turmoil of the last few days. You hitch your cargo more firmly under your arm, and wave down a white carapace passing by.

"Excuse me," you start, your voice rough, holding out an imploring hand. "Could you direct me to a Reader?"

The carapace brightens, smiling widely. She smooths down her skirts and points down a side street. "Certainly ma'am! Megido's just down that alleyway there, you can't miss her shop."

You bow, sweeping low, and flash a smile at the girl, shaking out a gold coin from your purse. "Thank you very much," you say, and press the coin into her smooth palm when you shake her hand, and dart off down the alley before she can protest.

The alley is filthy, worn cobblestones caked in mud, probably the result of the dust storms in the summer and the monsoons more recently. Candles flicker behind grimy glass windows, and black water sluices down the gutter and into the drains. The hustle of the street seems far off, the sound dulled. Faces watch you from high windows, curtains drawn hastily when you glance their way.

You shiver, and draw the cloak tighter around you.

A troll smokes a pipe ahead, sitting languidly on a flight of steps. He can't be particularly old, you think, his cheeks still have the slightest hint of baby fat, though his horns are impressive, curving out and up to wicked tips. A good natured smile graces his features, and his legs are metal, you see as you get closer, they glint bronze in the fading light.

You tuck your hair behind your ear, and slow to a stop in front of him. A wooden sign sways marginally above him, creaking. It reads: _MEGIDO'S SMOKE SHOP AND READINGS_. The boy blows a smoke ring at you.

"Hey," he says, his smile growing slightly shyer as he runs a hand through the shaggy hair at the nape of his neck. "Are you, uh, looking for Aradia?"

"Is Aradia also known as Megido?" you ask, laying one hand on the bundle, your other pointing to the sign. The boy's smile brightens again, his eyes crinkling.

"Yeah," he says, tapping his pipe out into the gutter. He stands up, tottering briefly, and takes the steps two at a time until he's at your level, standing a head higher than you. He holds out a hand in greeting, and a bronze blush creeps onto his cheeks. "I'm Tavros, who're you, and, what brings you here? Because, uh, you don't look like you're from around here. Uh, no offense."

You hesitate for only a moment before taking his hand, shaking it firmly. You smile. "I'm Kalbi. I need something Read, and someone told me I should come here."

Tavros' smile brightens. A lamp hanging from the sign flickers on, and you start at it, staring at the weak glow. He notices you staring, and laughs, a stilting but earnest sound. "Do you like it?" he puffs up, proud. "Our friend Sollux made it. We're the first on our street to have had them installed, but we expect that soon it'll be common to see them all over Prospit, and maybe even in the palace itself! Or, uh, that's what Sollux says anyway."

You shake yourself free of your stupor, and smile encouragingly at him. You'd heard of these lamps, John had been very keen on them, but you'd never seen them personally. "They're phenomenal," you say, and Tavros bounces, a happy glow in his eyes.

"Thanks, I'm sure Sol will appreciate that," he says, and moves to the steps. "You probably want to go inside, don't you?"  
You nod, and Tavros motions that you follow him. He pushes open the door, a thing of curling iron bars that creaks noisily, and the two of you step into a tiny parlor. Smoke curls around the ceiling, another electric light dimly glowing, along with many candles and a few more lamps. Tavros takes a seat behind a desk, kicking up his legs and thumbing open a book.

"Aradia's right through there," he says, pointing to a curtain of beads that hides a doorway to another part of the building.

"Thank you," you say, leaving another gold coin on the desk. Your hand tightens on your bundle, and you duck through the beads.

The new room is bigger than the previous one, and airier too, with three windows open wide and lamps shining brighter. There's a staircase on the far wall, narrow and leading up another level. The plaster is ivory and cracking, the wooden floors scuffed and layered in rugs that muffle your footsteps. There's a girl with horns like a ram, ebony hair pulled into a loose bun near the first on the windows, pouring out two cups of tea. A fireplace crackles merrily, and she smiles brightly at you.

"Hello! Please, have a seat, wherever you'd like, leave your package on the table, thank you," she chirps, balancing the tea tray on one hand, a rolled up newspaper in the other. She settles herself in a worn wingback chair, crossing her legs at the ankles.

She's a pretty little thing, maybe a head shorter than you, wearing in a maroon high collared dress. Her eyes are chalked with red and they sparkle kindly. You take the seat across from her, and sink into it, removing your hood and setting the canvas bundle on the coffee table. She slides a chipped mug to you, and asks, "Cream, sugar?"

You clear your throat. "Sugar please," you say, and she smiles, drops three cubes into your mug. She leans forward, hands you a spoon, and leans back, nursing her own mug, inhaling the vapors.

She regards you in silence for a moment, and then speaks. "I am Aradia, but I'm assuming that you already knew that, just like I already know that you are Jade Harley, not Kalbi," she is soft-spoken, golden eyes half-lidded. You choke on your tea, the sweet liquid spurting out of your mouth and onto your cloak, even as you attempt to hold it back with a hand. Aradia is at your side in what seems like an instant, holding out a handkerchief and thumping you soundly on the back.

"Breathe," she orders, stern and calm, and retreats to her chair.

"How did you-" you gasp out, and she laughs, a sound like tinkling bells.

"Princess, I am a Reader, and I'd be a piss-poor one if I couldn't see through the farces people put up," she leans forward, rests her elbows on her knees, and points at the bundle. "Unwrap it. Try to touch it directly as little as possible, please!"  
You comply, untying the twine and unfolding the cloth. It shines dully on the table, and Aradia regards it calmly.

"It is a beautiful blade," she says. "But I am not the first to Read it. Who came before?"

You swallow the lump in your throat. "A carapace named Doctor Scratch. His testimony was used in a trial, but I… I have suspicions, and I need it Read by a third party without any prior connections. Can you do it?"

Aradia snorts, waves her hand as if swatting away a fly. "Oh of course. Give me a moment," she leans forward, takes Caledscratch in hand, keeping a layer of cloth between her skin and the sword. She eyes it carefully, muttering words as she turns it over and over. Her claws tap the metal three times, her thumb traces the broken edge, and she hums under her breath, tuneless and chanting.

Her back stiffens, and her head tilts back. You can just barely see her eyes, and while before they were golden, they're now filmed with an eerie, opaque white. Her chanting continues, faster, pulsing with energy. A strange force fills the room, and it's stifling. You shift in your chair, tightening your fingers on the armrests. The opacity slides off her eyes like oil, travels down her arms to Caledscratch, where it settles and sinks into the metal, her fingers following right through like it's not so much as mist.

Aradia's head cocks to the side, and she looks at her hands, melded with the blade. Her brow furrows, and her eyes, golden again, narrow in concentration. Her voice still, stops, and, without warning, she _yanks_, and there are two swords on the table, one solid and real, the other its counterpart, floating like condensed mist an inch above the surface of the table.

Aradia smiles, and beckons that you lean forward.

"Take the first one, wrap it back up if you want," she says nonchalantly, tucking her hair behind her ear and running her hands down the curve of her horns. You do as she asks, and then only the copy she made is present. Upon closer inspection, you realise that it is not an exact copy. While its shape is the same, this one shimmers like Aradia's eyes had, like oil on water, predominantly blue. There is a single glowing sigil in the blade as well, like sunlight leaking through a tear.

Aradia points first at the blue colour, swirling like ink, and she reaches for one of the biscuits stacked on the tea tray, nibbling on it as she speaks. "The principal colour tells you who last used the blade," she says, watching you from hooded eyes. "Every person has a shade that is associated with them. Some people pick up on just the colours, others can read what they mean. I can tell you that this is the colour the heir carries with him."

You choke out a laugh. "He always did like blue," you say, and Aradia shifts, laying a comforting hand on your shoulder for a moment before pulling away. She clears her throat, and points to the rune, the tips of her finger skating over its edges.

"This," she pauses, glances up at you, and bites her lip. "This one means that there was death brought by this blade."

Your throat closes up, and you reach into your waistcoat. "If I gave you an object that belonged to someone, would you be able to tell me if they were involved in that incident?"

She looks puzzled, but nods. "Of course. Do you have the object with you?"

You swallow, and pull out your closed fist. The cool metal of the pocket watch slides against the skin of your palm. You can feel it ticking, like it's alive. Aradia holds out her hand, eyebrows raised in expectancy. You hesitate. "I just need to know if he was involved. That's all," you breathe deeply, and set the watch in her hand.

She turns it over, holds it up to the window. You bite your lip. She sets it back down on the table, shaking her head. She gestures at the mist-blade, and then back at the watch.

"The aura _is _present on the blade, but its two weeks old, at least," she says, her voice quiet. She draws in a breath, and continues. "Whoever owned the watch was not present when this blade took a life."

A roaring starts in your ears.

Your head swims, and your hands tighten into fists, fingernails digging into the heel of your hand and drawing blood. The room greys out, and your lungs struggle in your chest. You feel yourself bend over, forehead touching your knees.

(oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god)

Your hearing comes back slowly, starting with a high pitched whining that you realise is coming from you, it's you and you're crying, mouth hanging open and face twisted. Aradia is kneeling in front of you, clasping one of your hands and alternating between using the other to shake your shoulder and pat your face. Tavros hovers in the doorway, one hand on the frame, a concerned expression carved into his features.

You shut your mouth, trembling. _Breathe_, you order yourself, and you take in a tiny, shuddering breath.

"I'm okay," you say, and it comes out small, pitiful. Aradia shoots Tavros a look, and after a brief conversation involving eyebrows and lip curls, he leaves.

"Are you really?" Aradia asks, and her eyes are soft as she sits on the table in front of you. Your lips curl into a humorless smile, and you shake your head.

"No," you say, and you loosen your fingers, shaking them out. Your head feels heavy and your chest hurts. She presses the watch into your loosened palm and you grip it, slipping it into your pocket once more. "I've made a mistake."

Aradia cants her head. "We all make mistakes, princess."

"Not ones like this one," you say, and with effort, haul your leaden limbs out of the chair, swaying on your feet. Aradia rises with you, hovers a hand near your elbow, and regards you with narrowed eyes. You can practically see the gears spinning behind her eyes.

She gives an almost inaudible gasp, and her eyes widen. Her hand clamps down over her mouth, and you shrink under her gaze, turning your own head away. You move quickly, to the door, Caledscratch heavy in your arms and Dave's watch heavy in your pocket. You're almost out when her slim hand catches your wrist.

"You seek to make amends, don't you?" she asks, her voice low and urgent as she drags you back into the room, toward the tall and narrow staircase. You resist, brow crinkling, and you tear away, rubbing at your wrist where her fingers had bitten in.

"How would I do that?" you say, bitter. "He's dead."

"But you _wish _to," Aradia hisses, something strange behind her eyes, and you should leave, you should leave _right_ _now_-

Instead, you nod.

"Yes," you whisper, and think (not of him, not of his face during his trial) of happier days.

Aradia nods, and grabs your wrist again, gentler. She leads you up the stairs to a little wooden door at the top. She stops there, and turns to you, her eyes still dark and strange, but they carry a hint of trepidation. "You must be absolutely firm in your decision – this is not something that you can go back on once you have begun. Are you certain that you want this?"

You swallow the lump in your throat, your fingers spasm around Caledscratch's hilt, and you nod.

"Then there is a way, Jade Harley, to bring him back."

.

The palace is quiet when you slip back through the halls to your chambers. You tuck Caledscratch under your bed and light a lantern, hanging it on a hook. You slip out of your trousers and shirt and into the green dress laid out for you on your bed.

You're late, and your pulse stutters when you think of who, exactly, will be at the dinner.

You bite your lip and cinch up the corset, holding the strings between your teeth as you slide into your stockings. There's no time to do up your hair, so you braid it quickly and twist it into a bun.

You leave the room, walking briskly, and give tight smiles and brief nods to anyone you pass. There are not many in the halls.  
Your family is taking dinner on a terrace, which is an oddity in and of itself. It's probably to impress the Dersan prince who's visiting for the season. You pick your way up the stone steps, the cool night air washing over your bare arms. You feel itchy in your skin, and you run a finger over your wrist, tracing the henna symbols there, hardly visible in the torchlight.

(_Aradia is stoic as she paints your skin. "This is so they'll recognize you, but that does not mean that you can let it fade. You will need it, later in your journey."_

_"Where do I need to go?" you ask, voice quiet and small in the attic space._

_"East," she says._)

There are only four people seated at the table: the first, your father; the second, Roxy, Rose's mother; Rose herself; and a troll boy who could only be the visiting prince. A fountain burbles merrily nearby, a stark contrast to the dead silence of the table's occupants. Your father clears his throat, and Rose looks at you with an expression like mild surprise before her face turns blank once more.

"Jade," your father says, motioning for you to take the seat next to him. "How kind of you, to join us."

"I'm sorry," you say in return, seating yourself gently. A servant is called forward with a plate piled high with fruits and a glass of water. "I had business to attend to."

"Is that so?" he says, raising an eyebrow at your unkempt hair and unwashed body. You shift uncomfortably. "Would you care to share what that was?"

Your jaw tightens, as do your fingers on your wrist. "I was planning to, later."

Your father sits back, appeased, and Rose stares at you, her expression unreadable. Something in her scrutiny promises a conversation with her as well. The troll-prince shifts, staring very intently at his knuckles. Roxy refuses to look at any of you, and she shifts away when your father tries to link hands with her.

Dinner does not improve.

.

After dinner, your father has you follow him to his study. He has you sit in an armchair in front of his desk and he sits across from you, resting his head in his hand. His face looks pinched, and he pours himself a glass of wine from the decanter on his desk, and he gives you a strained, tired smile.

"Well, Jade, it's later," he says, and swirls the dark liquid around. "I can tell something's bothering you. You can tell me, now."  
Your shift, twisting your fingers in your lap. The henna itches. You resist the urge to pick at it, instead biting down on your tongue.

"This morning I was in the garden, and I found a note from John," you say, stilting, and your father's eyes soften in sympathy.

You swallow. "It… made me doubt the validity of the events of the past few days."

You father watches you from over the rim of his cup, his brow furrowed. "How do you mean?"

You lick your lips, and shake your head. "If John had been telling the truth, I don't think Dave had had Caledscratch for at least a week before. Before everything," you'd been looking down, studying the floorboards intently, and you look up now. Your father's eyes are unreadable, his hand clasped in front of his mouth. He motions for you to continue. "Following this line of thought, I decided it would not be amiss to have a third, uninvolved party Read Caledscratch. I took it into the city, and the results were… enlightening."

Your throat is tight, and you fall silent. After a few moments that seem to stretch into hours, your father shifts, and speaks.

"Do you mean to say that the boy was not guilty of the crime he was punished for?" your father asks, and you wince, clearly hearing the storm broiling under his calm facade.

"If the Reader was correct, Dave had not touched Caledscratch for weeks. She said that John was the last person to hold it."

"Jade," your father begins a placating undercurrent to his voice. "At the least you are insinuating that Doctor Scratch was mistaken in his reading, and at the worst you are insinuating that he lied to us. Both are dangerous paths to tread."

"I believe he lied to us, yes," you say, bolder. (You never liked Scratch. He creeped about, lingering in the corners of rooms, and his eyeless face made it so you could never tell if he watched you or not. And he had sounded so, so smug when the sentence had been dealt out to Dave.) You tighten your jaw, and your father tightens his.

"This is ridiculous," he groans. "Scratch is a trusted member of the court, you know this! Why would he lie, what could he possibly gain from that?"

You lean forward. "I don't know! But I know now that Dave did not deserve death!" you're almost shouting now, your vision swimming with unshed tears.

"He killed my son! Your brother!" he shouts back, rising to his feet, towering over you.

"Dave was your son too! And I lo-" you choke, slapping a hand over your mouth. You tremble, and your father seems to shake himself free of his anger, and he crosses to you, laying a hand on your shoulder and pulling you to rest against his chest. He rocks you, like you're six years old again. You sob.

"I know, I know it's hard. You're young and in mourning. It's confusing, I know," he shushes you, pets down your hair, kisses your forehead. "You need to trust Doctor Scratch; you need to trust me, darling. The Reader you went to was likely a con-artist, bent on tricking you out of your purse."

You shake your head. "She didn't ask for any money."

For that, your father has no answer. Instead, he runs a thumb across your dirty cheek, and brushes back your hair, wiping away your tears. "It's late, dear. You ought to get a bath and then get to sleep."

You nod, numbly, your hiccuping sobs stilling in your chest. He helps you to your feet and pulls you into a final embrace.

Your fingers tighten in his shirt and then you let him go and you leave your father's study, keeping your head down as you walk down the hallways.

Someone grabs your wrist, and you jump. You turn to look, but your head is immobilized at the neck, by another hand. Chill emanates from both palms, smooth as chess pieces. Hot breath washes over your neck. Your arm is wrenched back, wrist up, and you yelp.

"I would suggest that you desist from making any more noise, princess," a familiar nasal voice says, shooting a spike of ice into your heart. Your arm is held, twisted, and you wince, but stay silent. "This is a very pretty design. You'd best keep it covered up. Many things could happen to it in the wilds of the east."

Your arm is released, and the grip on your neck vanishes. "Keep walking, Jade Harley."

You walk, and three hallways later, you stop a servant, tell them to find Rose and send her to your room.

You glance over your shoulder, and pick up your pace.

.

You have a pack half filled by the time Rose lets herself in. You've changed out of your dress and into travelling clothes that consist of a durable pair of trousers, a shirt made of similar material, a coat, knee high riding boots, and a heavy wool cloak.

"You sent for me?" she asks, voice carefully neutral as she goes to stand by your crackling fire. You secure a bedroll.

"I did," you reply shortly, and lash it to the back of your pack. Flint and steel go into a front pocket, along with the pocket watch. You glance over to her and see that her brow is furrowed in confusion. "I don't have much time."

"Why? What's going on, Jade?" she asks, and moves forward a half step before faltering. You laugh softly, and your fingers finish the last tie on the pack. You'll get food tomorrow in the market, you decide.

"I wish I could tell you everything, but we don't have that luxury right now. Suffice it to say that I am very sorry. So very, very sorry. I've made a mistake that has caused this family so much more pain than it deserves," Rose is quiet, her eyes are wide. You step closer, and from your pocket you produce a heavy, wrought iron key. You press it into her slack hand. "This is the key to the Royal Crypts. See to it that Dave is given a place there, if no one returns in the coming months," you lean closer, so your lips nearly brush her ear, and you whisper, "Under no circumstances should you trust Scratch, or be in a room alone with him."

You move away quickly, back to the bed. You reach under it, pull out the sword bundle. You lash that to the pack as well, and settle it on your shoulders. Rose's lips are tight, her eyes shining with worry. "Jade, what are you planning?"

You smile. It's a heavy expression. "To fix things," you say, and after a moment, Rose moves forward quickly, hugs you tightly.

"When will you be back?" she asks, and you swallow a lump in your throat, blinking away tears collecting in your eyes.

("_It will be a dangerous trek," Aradia says, holding your skin taught. "Through sand and sun and soul. There is a possibility that, even if you reach your destination, you will not come back."_)

"Look for me when summer starts again," you say, burying your face in your sister's neck, breathing her in. The clock on your wall strikes eleven. You pull yourself away.

You leave through the window.


End file.
